Aaaaaaaah! Christian Slade, asking me to dance?!
“Sure,” I say, taking his hand.
There’s a small square in the garden serving as a dance floor, and some other couples are already swaying in the middle. Christian escorts me to the center, and we start swirling in time with the music. With a hand on my lower back and the other holding mine, he leads me like a professional.
“You’re an impressive dancer,” I say.
“You seem surprised.”
“Not many men can waltz this gracefully, not in this century at least.”
He chuckles. “Comes with the job, I guess.”
“Of being an actor?”
“Yeah, sooner or later we all have to star in a costume movie with a ball, and the dance-like-a-gentleman training becomes mandatory.”
“What movie?”
Christian raises a brow. “Not a fan, I take it?”
I blush. “No, it’s not that. But I’m not a stalker either. You’ve been in so many movies… I don’t remember them all.”
“Which ones have you seen, then?”
“Ah, well. Last year’s sci-fi flick… mmm… Dancing in the Rain, of course. See, that’s another one you had to waltz in.”
“Indeed. That’s my excuse for being a good dancer—what’s yours?”
“Several years of ballet with some ballroom dancing on the side.”
“Brilliant.”
“Your real-life British accent sounds weird.”
Christian flashes me another of his million-dollar smiles. “You don’t like it?”
“No, I do. It’s just that on TV, you usually speak American. It’s fascinating how you can sound totally natural with both accents.”
Christian chuckles. “That’s diction training for you. And having an American mum helped too.” He winks.
Is he flirting? Wow, it’s so weird to dance with a man I’ve only seen on TV who’s so incredibly gorgeous. Mr. Slade here looks like a marble statue, and I’m pretty sure his skin is smoother than mine. Not to mention, Christian has been named “Sexiest Man Alive” three years in a row, as well as Hollywood’s most wanted bachelor. This whole experience is surreal.
But for all his good looks and A-list status, I’m still at ease talking to him. And, weirdly enough, I don’t want to rip his clothes off and haul him off to my hotel room. Chatting with him feels more like talking to an old friend.
“You have an odd expression,” Christian says, interrupting my musings.
“It’s just that you’re so normal.” That came out wrong. He raises his brows and I hurry to explain better. “I thought I’d be completely star-struck by you. But you’re just a regular human being.”
Christian is silent for a split second, making me worry I might’ve offended him. But then he throws back his head, roaring with laughter.
My cheeks heat up. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Christian says, still chuckling. “I wish I met more people like you.”
The song changes and we pause for a second.
“Another round?” Christian asks.
“Sure,” I say, and let him pirouette me around.
After some more dancing, I ask, “Do people treat you very differently?”
“You’ve no idea. Feeling normal is a welcome novelty.”
“Aren’t actors supposed to have these huge egos? You know, always needing to be the center of attention.”
“Not all the time, makes me wish I had a switch. Of course, it’s cool to meet fans and have people ask for autographs and pictures, but sometimes it’s exhausting to catch the awe in people’s eyes. It makes building real relationships hard.”
“Is that why you’re still single?”
Christian frowns, and his movements become more rigid. “Am I off the record?”
“Completely, t-totally off the record,” I stutter. “I’m so sorry. Did I give you the impression I was interviewing you?”
“My fault.” He shakes his head, and his hand relaxes again in mine. “But it has happened before. I say something in a friendly conversation and the next day my words get printed on page one.”
“That must suck.”
“It does. It’s made me suspicious of even the most innocent questions. And yes, it makes it almost impossible to date.”
“Why?”
“Every time I meet someone who’s not Hollywood,” he rolls his eyes as if to air-quote the word Hollywood. “I wonder if the girl likes me only for the fame, money, or worse if she’s in love with one of my characters…”
I smirk. “I’m sure uncanny good looks are a factor too.”
Christian chuckles again. “See, no one ever gives me cheek.”
“So why don’t you date fellow celebrities? Actresses must be immune to the fame thing.”
“Ah, see, but they’re not. In a way, it’s even worse.”
Another song goes by, and we only nod to each other and keep dancing.
“Why are actresses worse than fans?”
“The movie industry is weird, complicated and… layered. It sort of has hierarchies.”
“I’m sure you can date out of your caste, though.”
Before replying, Christian spins me in an inside-outside turn. “Sure I can. But when I date someone less famous, I can’t help wondering if she likes me or the career boost and extra publicity on gossip magazines. It’s a feeling I can’t shake. And if I were to date someone more famous, then she’d probably have the same doubts. Not to mention that dating actresses is a nightmare. Schedules are the worst. Most of my past breakups happened due to scheduling conflicts.”
“You sound as wretched as Julia Roberts in Notting Hill when she tries to get the last brownie.”
As another song ends, Christian lifts me up and smiles as he lowers me down. “I’m just saying it’s not all bling.”
I squeeze his hand and motion him to pick up the quicker rhythm of the new song.
“So basically,” I say. “You need to meet a girl who’s never watched a day of TV in her life, fall in love with her, and make her fall for you.”
“And how many girls like that do you know?”
Countless nights spent binge-watching TV shows with Nikki flash before my eyes. “Not many, I agree.”
“Blair, you’re an amusing little thing. Where has Richard been hiding you?”
I turn rigid in his arms.
Christian immediately notices my discomfort. “What did I say wrong?”
“I’m self-conscious about my height, or lack of thereof,” I say, which isn’t a lie, but also isn’t the truth. Just hearing Richard’s name turns me into a bundle of nerves.
“Really? Don’t be. Men love tiny women.”
“And of the many adjectives women enjoy, ‘tiny’ and ‘little’ are not on the list.”
“Petite?”
“Nope.”
“Mmm, delicate?”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Okay, I’ll drop it.”
“Sage man.”
“What about you?” Christian goes back to our original conversation. “Any man in your life?”
I shake my head.
“I know I’m not supposed to ask, but how come?”
“Well, I spent my life giving too much importance to stupid things and wasted the last three years on a cheating bastard. So right now I’m focusing on myself and on straightening my priorities.”
And on the side, I have this ridiculous crush on my boss, you know, your friend Richard—the one who doesn’t do relationships.
“How’s that going?” Christian asks.
“So far, I changed jobs, my ex threatened to sue me on multiple occasions… mmm… I experienced my first hangover, got arrested, and adopted a stray dog.”
Christian laughs wholeheartedly then lets out a low whistle. “And I thought my life was interesting. What did you do to get arrested?”
The music slows to an end again. How many songs have we danced together? I’ve lost count. I’m about to answer Christian’s question and launch into another dance when a towering presence appears next to us.
Richard has a weird expression on his face. Hard to say what’s going on inside his head, but he seems annoyed.
“If you dance another song together,” the boss says, looking at me, “you’ll end up on all the gossip magazine covers as Christian Slade’s mysterious new flame.”
“Richard, mate.” Christian lets me go and takes a step back. “I’ve been selfish; I completely stole your date.”
“Blair isn’t my date, she’s here to report.”
Since Richard asked me to join him on this Californian weekend, a tiny hope has been burning inside me. Hope that these few days together away from the office mean more than a business trip. Hope that something will happen between us, that if something in New York is impossible… you know, what happens in Hollywood stays in Hollywood.
Richard’s words extinguish that hope completely. They chill my heart and fill my mouth with the taste of ashes.
Christian smiles, shaking his head. “Mate, you’re such a slave worker.” He pats Richard on the shoulder and then looks at me. “Group projects back in school were the same. Richard kept us all in line.”
I try to smile, and I hope the tight-lipped grimace I’m producing doesn’t look as ashen as my heart feels.
“I’ve got to mingle with the other guests anyway,” Christian adds. “Blair, it’s been a pleasure.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’ll tell me all about your adventures next time.”
I manage to nod. Christian pats Richard on the shoulder one more time and is gone.
Refusing to meet Richard’s eye, I say, “I was tired of dancing, anyway.” I make to shuffle away from the dance floor.
“Not so quickly.”
Richard grabs me by the waist and pulls our bodies together while imprisoning my left hand in his. Without another word, he leads me back to the center of the square to dance.
The boss’s style is more basic, a steady one, two, three… one, two, three… But honestly, I couldn’t care less about Richard’s dancing skills, not when he’s looking at me as he is now.
I’m confused. He just spelled out for everyone that this isn’t a date. I mean, if this is the way Richard stares at his non-dates, how much neuro-damage can he inflict on his date-dates?
As we dance, neither of us talks. We just move, staring into each other eyes. It’s some sort of non-verbal conversation that is making my head spin like no pirouette ever did. I get lost in the brown of Richard’s eyes, and the world around us disappears. Only our bodies exist. The heat of his right hand on my lower back, the pressure of his hand on mine as he holds it, and his hypnotizing gaze.
I don’t know how long we dance, or for how many songs, or to what rhythm and steps. I notice only when the music stops. Someone, somewhere, is making a speech, probably Christian. I don’t care. I only care that Richard has let go of my hand and I’ve been suddenly deprived of his body heat.
The boss takes a step back, looking at me as if I was a murder scene.
Still looking horrified, Richard shakes his head once and backs further away. Before I can say or do anything, he’s making a run for it.
What the hell was that?
I try to chase after him, but my gown isn’t exactly conducive to running. The full skirt certainly doesn’t help me navigate the crowd converging toward the center of the garden to listen to Christian’s speech.
Slowly, elbowing my way through Hollywood’s best, I manage to reach the edge of the group. Richard is nowhere to be seen. I frantically turn my head left and right, but he’s not here. Not caring that it’s rude to leave without saying goodbye to the host, I take the elevators down and walk to the wardrobe to retrieve my shawl and clutch.
My phone is in my hands as soon as the clerk hands me the clutch. I try Richard’s number… straight to voicemail. From upstairs comes a boom of applause and, slowly, all the guests start spilling out of the elevators and walking through the reception hall toward me. Well, toward their coats more accurately. Before the horde can trap me, I hurry outside. On the steps of Disney Hall, I try his number again and… get his voicemail again. Awesome. Richard has fried my brain with his insane eyes and made every fiber of my body want him even more, and now he’s disappeared.
Something boils in my veins. I’m not sure if it’s fury or lust, but I’m certain I’m not ready to let this go. He can’t dance with me like that and then leave me here to fend for myself. Sorry, Richard, but I know where you’re sleeping tonight. I hail a cab and give the driver the hotel address.
***
In the lobby, I pause at the reception desk. There’s a line, so I wait my turn impatiently tapping a shoe on the marble floor. The receptionist is a statuesque blonde who must go around LA carrying headshots. Around here, it seems every other person is in their job only temporarily, waiting to make their big break as actors.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist finally asks me.
“I’m traveling with Mr. Richard Stratton. He’s staying in room 354. We got separated at a charity gala and his phone must’ve died.” The receptionist keeps on a kind expression, but she’s probably wondering why I’m telling her the story of my life. TMI, Blair. “Anyway, I just wanted to check if Mr. Stratton came back.”
“Very well, I can call his room for you.” The receptionist focuses on the screen in front of her, clicks the mouse twice, and then looks back at me. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Stratton has activated the ‘do not disturb’ function. We cannot contact him at this time.”
“Oh. Does that mean he’s back?”
“The option can only be activated from within the room. So, yes, Mr. Stratton must be in his room.”
“Thanks so much.”
Dread and elation play a boxing match in my guts as I backtrack to the elevator. The fight continues all the way up to the eleventh floor, and by the time I get there dread wins, so I decide to stop in my room first to rally.
Down the hall, a red light next to Richard’s door catches my attention. The words ‘do not disturb’ are spelled clearly underneath the glowing light. Is he sending me a message?
In my room, I pace, trying to decide my next move. Should I really go knock on Richard’s door? To say what? Should I go to bed instead? I wouldn’t sleep. The memory of dancing with Richard is too intoxicating. The feel of his hand clasping mine, his arm around my waist, our bodies pressed together… and his eyes. Oh gosh, even thinking about his stare makes me flush.
I open the window to let some air in, but it’s not the cooling breeze one could expect in New York. Stupid LA heat. This isn’t me. I’m losing my sanity, and I’m not one to lose her head over a guy—especially arrogant, meat-eating, playboy types. I’m also not one to get arrested, adopt a pet, or wear a scandalous dress. This line of thinking suited the old, list abiding me. The new me doesn’t play by the rules.
On impulse, I walk toward the luggage rack, open my suitcase and fish inside for the list. The sorry sheet of paper has never been more crumpled. I lay it out on the desk, trying to flatten the edges with my palms. Pen in hand, I sit at the room’s desk and scan the list. After crossing out never make exceptions and never skinny dip, I search for something that will give me an excuse to ignore Richard’s ‘do not disturb’ sign.
There. Never make the first move. If ever there was a time to ignore that rule, tonight is it.
I kiss the list and get up, trying to smooth the wrinkles in my skirt. Should I change into something less dramatic? A mental vision of Richard undoing my zipper flashes through my head. His hand slowly pulling it down as he stands behind me, his breath hot on my neck. I can almost feel Richard’s hands pulling down the straps of the dress over my shoulders and this once-in-a-lifetime gown falling to the floor, pooling at my feet in silky waves. The dress stays.
Mirror check: makeup still good, but the hair would be sexier loose. I remove all the clips and fluff it, letting the locks cascade down my back. The bobby pins have left it wavy and voluminous and the curls add a bit of wildness to my look. I give myself a wink in the mirror, and go.
Richard’s room is only three doors down from mine. Standing here, I suddenly don’t feel so brave. The gold metal plate with the number 354 engraved in black seems to get bigger as I stare at it. This was stupid. Blair, go back to your room. I take a step back; then stop. No, I’m not going back.
Inhale, exhale, and knock.
With a pounding heart, I wait for the door to open.